Cross-traders
by Tori L. Corday
Summary: Sequel to Searching for Salvatore.
1. Default Chapter

Cross-traders  
  
by Tori L. Corday AKA Sri'alys the Indep  
  
  
  
The recognizable characters appearing in this story are © R.A. Salvatore, Elaine Cunningham and WotC: Forgotten Realms, all rights reserved. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made by the author for writing this story. No infringement upon nor challenge to the rights of the copyright holders is intended; nor should any be inferred. Blah, blah, blah.  
  
  
  
PART ONE  
  
***  
  
It was a lovely day to be a cross-dimensional trader in Faerûn. Siobhan took the stairs two at a time as she made her way to the top of Jarlaxle's tower, a Swiss Army rucksack slung over her shoulders filled with all sorts of electronic gadgets and about thirty pounds of batteries in a satchel. She didn't see Entreri until she almost ran into him on the winding stairs, though he was making no particular effort to be stealthy.  
  
"Where are you going with those?" the assassin demanded, noting her overstuffed backpack.  
  
Siobhan valiantly resisted the urge to be snippy. There was only one place to go when a person got to the top of the stairs, after all.  
  
"To Jarlaxle," she said simply, waiting for him to pass so that she could get by with her bulky load.  
  
"I don't think so," Entreri said, confiscating the bag before she could react. He rifled through its contents—a couple of Discmans, flashlights, laptops, digital watches, cameras, an Interactive Palm Kitty named Guen ("That's Jarlaxle's, not mine," Siobhan protested), a titanium crowbar ("You never know")—and the entire stock of Duracells from her eighty-year- old neighbor's basement bunker, now in neglect after the dawn of the millennium had failed to bring about the Eschaton.  
  
"Is there a problem?" she asked as Entreri took the satchel full of batteries and gave the rest back to her.  
  
"There was a problem," he corrected. "Jarlaxle gets two Ds and four double- As each tenday. No more." He started down the stairs again.  
  
"You're rationing him?" Siobhan asked, incredulous.  
  
Entreri stopped and turned, then remarked casually, "If Jarlaxle plays that wretched 'Dancing Queen' song one more time, I will rip off his head with my bare hands and tap dance on his cerebral cortex."  
  
Siobhan raised an eyebrow. "You've been watching the Learning Channel, haven't you?" she said, impressed.  
  
***  
  
"I'm not sure this is such a good idea," Siobhan told Jarlaxle later, as the mercenary was playing with his new toys.  
  
Jarlaxle was busy furiously pushing the keys on his laptop. "This Quake II game is neat, but it does get a bit repetitive. Do you think you could get me a nuclear warhead next time?"  
  
"Um...no. Look, I've been thinking—"  
  
"Not even a small one? I'll be careful with it. I'll only use it when I feel it is truly justified in expressing my ire toward certain city officials who have invoked my wrath."  
  
"I don't think so," said Siobhan. "What I was saying was, I think this covert enterprise you're starting is an excellent opportunity for me to expand my horizons in business, marketing and sales, but I don't think it's one I want to pursue."  
  
"I thought you were enjoying Waterdeep," Jarlaxle said, shutting off the laptop. "Did I do something to offend you? If so, I apologize most profusely." He swept off his hat with a graceful bow.  
  
Siobhan blushed. "Besides owning a pastel blue leisure suit? No, of course not. I'm just imagining the backlash I'm going to get on message boards all over the Internet for sowing the seeds of destruction in Faerûn. Christ, it was bad enough when Salvatore introduced the cannon in Passage to Dawn; he had people ranting, raving and virtually frothing at the mouth for _years_. There are many evils in my world, not the least of which are nuclear weapons, Spam, and disco. I don't want to be responsible for exporting any of them here.  
  
"Speaking of evil," she continued, "Artemis expressed an almost pathological hatred for a particular song you like to play."  
  
Jarlaxle nodded and smirked. "'Dancing Queen,'" he supplied. "I play that just to annoy him."  
  
"Yes, well, your scheme is unfolding quite nicely. He's in a foul mood, staring daggers at people, namely me, and threatening to dismember you if you play it again."  
  
"Artemis hasn't killed anybody in close to two weeks, not since that unfortunate incident at the Laundromat. That makes him tense, and puts him in a bad mood," Jarlaxle explained. "I'm just trying to put him over the edge so he'll go out and engage some deserving person in...ah...dishonorable combat. That will help relieve his tension, and give him a much sunnier disposition, to the benefit of us all."  
  
Frowning, Siobhan unpacked the electronic devices from her sack and began sorting them into neat piles by the wall, next the stack of gaming products she'd brought to show Jarlaxle. "That plan raises some interesting moral issues," she said slowly. "Although there may be a few normative theories of ethics that would condone such an act, I can't help feeling that it's just _slightly_ on the dodgy side."  
  
"I already factored in your objections," Jarlaxle returned, grinning broadly as he spun his hat in his hands. "Do you not trust me to devise a plan that will make everyone happy?" He turned to face the wall, drawing a wand from his belt, and pointed it at the bleak, windowless stone. Issuing a verbal command to the device, Jarlaxle opened a hole in the wall from which he gazed out toward the city of Waterdeep, sprawled upon the coast like a crazy quilt of dark rooftops and glittering spires.  
  
"Jarlaxle the utilitarian?" Siobhan scoffed, rolling her eyes.  
  
"Out there, within those city walls, is a cleric of Bane who will be Entreri's victim this night," he said, gesturing toward the window. Siobhan stepped over to his side and stared into the distance at the hills rolling out beneath them, ending, where Waterdeep began, at the sea.  
  
"A cleric of Bane, you say?" Siobhan repeated dubiously.  
  
"One of the Tyrant's black sheep," Jarlaxle confirmed. "Who, like all priests of that order, is a deviant and a nefarious predator of children."  
  
Siobhan made a disgusted face and turned away, letting Jarlaxle close the window with another point and "click" of his wand.  
  
"Does my plan still displease you?" he asked.  
  
"I can live with it," Siobhan conceded.  
  
"Good," said Jarlaxle brusquely, rubbing his slender hands together. "Now, where _is_ that ABBA CD, anyway?"  
  
"Right here," said a voice from outside the doorway, and both Siobhan and Jarlaxle turned to see the silent Entreri emerge from the stairwell, flinging the CD toward the mercenary's throat as if it were a Frisbee.  
  
Siobhan instinctively leapt out and intercepted it with practiced ease, flinching when she felt a keen edge bite into her fingers. "What the hell?" she muttered as she shook the pain out of her bleeding hand and examined the outer rim of the CD, which had been ground all the way around to a fine, razor edge.  
  
"I believe you were looking for that?" Entreri remarked with casual maliciousness before stalking back down the stairs without another word.  
  
***  
  
Entreri made his way through the crowded streets of Waterdeep with the satchel of gadgets he had been sent to deliver, his mind full of murderous thoughts. He wasn't truly angry at Jarlaxle, even though it was obvious to him that the whole situation was a set-up. He just felt like killing somebody.  
  
In a wealthier section of the city, but beyond the domains of its ruling families, Entreri found what he was looking for: a rambling stone house set back from the street, covered in thorny vines and sporting an architectural nightmare of a facade on its western side. He had to climb up a narrow set of stairs to get to the front door, which huddled under an awning built to look like a leering gargoyle poised to pounce on unwelcome visitors.  
  
Entreri raised the doorknocker—a grinning skull, how imaginative—and proceeded to tap out the proper sequence, as Jarlaxle had instructed him. A few moments later, the skull's eyes flamed red and the door swung silently open.  
  
It was dark inside the house, but Entreri's eyes adjusted quickly to the low light conditions. He could see the shape of a person—a very short person—standing before him.  
  
"I have come to see Dreadmaster Goerik," Entreri said, keeping a hand close to the hilt of his dagger.  
  
His silent companion reached into his cloak and drew forth a glowing stone that illuminated the entranceway. Entreri could see now that he was a halfling, taking in the telltale hairy bare feet, tulip ears, and mop of curly brown locks. He also noticed scars on the halfling's cheeks, and as the little fellow gestured for him to follow, Entreri realized his tongue had been cut out.  
  
The halfling led him through a darkened corridor, lighting the way with his stone. Before them stretched a thick, patterned rug, the sight of which, in the home of a magic-user, always made the assassin uneasy. His suspicions were confirmed as he examined the halfling's deft steps: he wasn't walking quite in a straight line. Instead, he very purposely moved off his course by a couple of inches, the dance of his steps completing a subtle cyclical maneuver. Entreri fell into step exactly two cycles behind the halfling and scrutinized him for any changes in the pattern, copying his movements perfectly.  
  
When Entreri reached the other side of the rug without having blown himself up by stepping on the hidden glyphs, the halfling turned to him with a surprised, though not displeased, look on his face. Entreri guessed that his master would be less happy to deal with the assassin than with his corpse. He smirked. Happiness was overrated, anyway.  
  
The halfling took Entreri through another set of twists and turns, ultimately failing to assassinate him. At last they reached a tubular corridor at the end of which was a great circular, wooden door. As he expected, the hallway was lined with pressure plates, arranged at disappointingly regular intervals along the floor. Entreri avoided them easily.  
  
When they came to the door, it opened inwards of its own accord, spilling a thin, sickly light into the corridor. Entreri followed the halfling into Dreadmaster Goerik's meeting chamber.  
  
He had met a few priests of the Black Hand before, and their aesthetic tastes tended to run in either one of two directions: some kept their altars and private apartments with intimidating austerity, while others favored the gaudy accoutrements of death and destruction: zombie slaves at their beck and call, fiendish-looking tapestries and sinister lighting effects. Goerik was clearly one of the latter group, Entreri was not at all surprised to find.  
  
"So, you have found me. Congratulations," the priest said in a whining, nasal tone.  
  
Goerik squinted at him from behind a gorgon bone desk and pushed his little round glasses up his nose. He was skinny-limbed and balding, with a double chin and a paunch that concealed his belt. He was the most innocuous looking man Entreri had ever seen. The assassin moved into the room, studying him warily.  
  
"Your halfling servant was an able guide," Entreri said innocently, as if he hadn't even noticed the death traps in the corridor.  
  
"Indeed," Dreadmaster Goerik replied. He paused, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Marta! Saska!" he suddenly called, summoning two scantily-clad blond women from an adjoining room. "What's the matter with you mindless doxies? It's time for my hourly footbath."  
  
Entreri disgustedly watched the women kneel down with a pan of water and wash the man's toe fungus. Perhaps to some, such a display indicated power, but the assassin rankled at the thought of being waited on like a helpless cripple. To rely upon servants to maintain one's personal hygiene was degrading, and beneath contempt.  
  
The priest settled back in his chair with a satisfied air, folding his plump hands on the desk. "You have appropriated the devices from the Gondsmen?" he asked, eyeing Entreri's satchel. Not innocuous, the assassin corrected himself. Like a spider: bulbous in the middle and full of venom. Entreri hated spiders.  
  
"I have," he replied, pulling a cheap digital watch out of the bag and handing it over. As Goerik was looking down at the unusual device, Entreri drew a revolver and at point-blank range, unloaded it into the priest's head.  
  
He didn't quite get the reaction he was hoping for. Goerik leapt to his feet, quite unharmed, while the bodies of his serving girls slumped to the floor behind the desk in a fast-spreading pool of blood. Entreri cursed inwardly at himself. He'd heard of priests using spells to absorb injury for their comrades; he should have expected some inversion of it from a slimy Banite cleric.  
  
Nevertheless, Goerik was clearly frightened, and running as fast as his skinny legs could carry him. He skittered past the stunned halfling, through the circular door where Entreri had entered.  
  
He heard a low humming noise in the corridor as he entered. He stepped to his left and paused to listen. It was a good thing, because a sheet of metal came springing out of the wall from the right, stopping about a foot from the other side. Entreri moved around it cautiously, noting the fine blade on its edge that had come within inches of messily bisecting him.  
  
He suspected that these traps were magical in nature, and that, like the pressure plates, there was a way around them. Since the Time of Troubles, it had become common for a wizard of cleric to add a "back door" to their last line of defense, a loophole that only they knew how to exploit. The fact that he remained in one piece seemed to confirm it.  
  
Entreri smiled to himself. The magical fields that sprang the traps likely cross-cut the entire corridor, and thus, couldn't be avoided. But he had an idea about where the slamming plates might come from.  
  
He moved to the right this time and hedged forward as another plate shot out, stopping and missing him by inches. Then he dove to the floor in the center of the passage, shooting underneath two circular blades that sprang out from each side of the wall. Then it was right, center, right, left, in a perfect echo of the steps that had avoided the glyphs on the rug.  
  
"Too predictable," Entreri said, drawing his sword and dagger as he came out of the corridor unscathed.  
  
He heard chanting behind him and to his left, and he spun around to see Goerik step out of an alcove, reaching for him with a darkened hand. Entreri was experienced enough with spellcasters to recognize a life- draining touch when he saw one, so he came forward with his dagger leading, past the cleric's defenses and straight toward his heart.  
  
Goerik reflexively brought his arm up to block. Entreri responded by changing the angle of his strike, not to stab, but to slash. The powerful weapon drove through flesh and bone with an insatiable hunger, hacking the priest's hand off at the wrist. As the blackened appendage fell to the floor, the priest howled in pain and took off again, clutching the bloody stump. Entreri snatched the hand and followed him up a staircase, into a room with a large mirror standing prominently in the center.  
  
Goerik ran straight into it, disappearing as it swallowed him up. Entreri followed him through, confident as usual. 


	2. Cross-traders--Part Two

PART TWO  
  
***  
  
Siobhan was exploring the city at a leisurely pace, wondering how Entreri was faring, when she saw a tavern with a familiar wooden sign: The Yawning Portal.  
  
"That leads to Undermountain!" she said excitedly to herself, and went in the door.  
  
Business was hopping inside the tavern. All of the tables were full, leaving knots of people standing between them, drinking and chatting loudly. At the bar, a crowd of about fifteen people had converged on one spot, leaning in and jostling each other to get a better view of whatever entertainment was on display.  
  
Accustomed to traversing mosh pits, Siobhan elbowed and shouldered her way through the crowd, taking amusement in the way the burly, ham-fisted men she displaced always looked right past her when they turned, scowling, in their search for the culprit.  
  
Finally she came close enough to see the reason for the gathering. A wizard had a dark crystal through which flitted the image of a fight between two men. Siobhan could just make out their shapes from where she was standing, but the graceful movement of the swordsman as he leapt out to dodge a roaring jet of flame seemed puzzlingly familiar to her.  
  
***  
  
Entreri savored the look of surprise on the priest's face when he turned around and saw that the assassin had followed him through the mirror. With his cellphone-teleporter, he didn't normally fear being stranded, but when he saw the pillars of a Banite temple stretching high above him—higher than any building inspector in Waterdeep would ever allow—he began to get an uneasy suspicion. If this was part of Undermountain, the teleporter probably wouldn't function.  
  
Goerik hadn't taken the time to tend to his bleeding stump; his left arm lay uselessly clutched to his chest, while the other wove the beginning gestures of a spell as he leaned heavily against a tank of some steamy, acidic smelling liquid. Entreri knew well how to differentiate a defensive gesture from an offensive one, and concluded that this one was of the latter category. He tumbled back behind a pillar as a column of flame struck down upon the spot where he had been standing just a half second earlier. The heat still singed his face and set his cloak smoking, but the assassin came up in a defensive roll, otherwise unhurt.  
  
"Come to me, my minions!" came the dreadmaster's nasal command.  
  
***  
  
It was Entreri. It had to be. How his battle with the priest had become a source of entertainment for the patrons of the Yawning Portal, she had no idea—but there they were, intently trying to kill one another, to the amusement of the crowd.  
  
"Hey," she said, getting the attention of a passing barmaid. "Where are they looking into, do you know?"  
  
"Undermountain," the girl replied in a hushed tone, and hurried away with a tray of drinks in her hand.  
  
"I thought you couldn't scry into Undermountain," Siobhan said to no one in particular, loud enough to catch the interest of a young blonde nobleman sitting with a group of friends at the bar. Together, they wore enough layers of silk and velvet to make a hot air balloon, and looking at them, so smug and dandyish in their finery, Siobhan found that to be a strangely appropriate analogy.  
  
"You are well learned, dear lady," said the blonde, who was wearing green velvet breeches, green leather boots, a green silk shirt, and a green brocade jacket. "And well traveled, I do not doubt." He eyed her ripped up black jeans and old gray T-shirt curiously.  
  
"What?" Siobhan demanded, suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah, I travel. What do _you_ do, sit out in the sun all day and photosynthesize?"  
  
"Please, my dear," the nobleman drawled, "I get that enough from my uncle. I keep trying to tell him I've turned over a new leaf."  
  
"Clever," Siobhan said, rolling her eyes. "Tell me, did the repartee come with the silly outfit, or did you have to buy it separately?"  
  
The nobleman put a hand to his heart in an overly theatrical gesture. "Silly? My fair, cruel maiden, this color is the height of spring fashion in Waterdeep. Though, alas, your arrival in the city will surely spell the market-wide depreciation of such viridescent textiles."  
  
Siobhan gave him a long, skeptical look. "Okay, you got me," she admitted. "Why is that?"  
  
"Why, no dyer could possibly compete with the exquisite shade of your lovely green eyes," he replied, completely straight-faced.  
  
"Riiight. Well, Lucky, I hope you know more about this crystal than you do about coming up with convincing pick-up lines."  
  
The nobleman stretched languidly. "Believe what you will," he said. "The crystal? It's one of the few created by Halaster Blackcloak himself, endowed with the ability to pierce through the stone workings of his own design."  
  
"Voyeurism," Siobhan murmured, peering into the crystal ball. "An excellent use of such a rare device."  
  
The nobleman shrugged a bit sheepishly.  
  
"Does Durnan still keep the Well of Entry open for a gold piece?" she asked in a clear voice, at the exact moment at which all conversation in the room seemed to stop. Heads turned to regard her condescendingly.  
  
"He does, but you can't be thinking of going down there without a weapon," said one of the blonde man's companions, his voice ringing with alarm.  
  
"My dear fellow," replied the green-bedecked fop, "a woman armed with her beauty and caustic wit is never truly without weapons."  
  
Around her, several men laughed, and one drunkard regaled her with a brief parable about a stupid woman who had dared to go down the Well of Entry. The story concluded with her severed head washing up on the beach.  
  
"I've got a better one for you," replied Siobhan. "Once, there was this drunkard in New Orleans who woke up in a tub full of ice..."  
  
She slapped a gold piece down on the counter, still not quite feeling like the experience was really _real_, that at any moment she might wake up from a dream. Well, she was determined to see Undermountain before she did, if only to take a few pictures and get out.  
  
"It can't be that much worse than the New York subway," she rationalized.  
  
***  
  
Entreri sprang forward, leading with Charon's Claw. Goerik backpedaled frantically, raising a mace at the last instant to parry the weapon. "The Black Hand shall crush you in its iron fist!" the priest proclaimed, somewhat absurdly, considering how tenuous his career as an intermediary despot had suddenly become.  
  
The assassin stepped back and withdrew a familiar severed appendage from his jacket, holding it out with all the fingers except the middle one pressed against the palm. "You mean this one?" he asked, and threw the still-darkened hand into the vat of acid.  
  
Goerik threw down his mace and made a futile attempt to cast another spell, but Entreri was too fast. His sword tore through the links of the cleric's mail and into his heart, as the glow of an intended healing spell dissipated from his fingertips. Goerik hit the floor at the same time the temple doors were flung open, revealing a troupe of six skeletal warriors.  
  
They marched out into the room with swords drawn and raised, then stopped as each flung an unerring volley of glowing pink missiles from their left hands. Entreri came forward, unconcerned as he felt the missiles hit and bounce off an unseen force shielding his body. He reminded himself to thank Jarlaxle for the handy little brooch he'd given him.  
  
The undead resumed their march, undeterred. Entreri met them head on; he'd never met a skeleton that could parry. These ones were no exception, though one practiced a rather effective evasive maneuver, suddenly blinking away from his striking sword and reappearing several feet away.  
  
Entreri cleaved the one next to it instead. Bones shattered and scattered. The rest came on without hesitation but soon discovered, to their ultimate demise, that their little blinking trick couldn't get them far enough away from the battle-crazed assassin when his blade turned their way.  
  
Entreri turned into a cuisinart of destruction, pulverizing the rest of the skeletons in the span of about six seconds. Then he looted the corpse of the Banite priest. He found nothing of value but an ornate ruby ring, and slipped it on his finger.  
  
***  
  
A long tunnel stretched out before her, curving up from the flat floor into a high vault. All was quiet and dark beyond the range of her flashlight.  
  
Siobhan shined the light on the wall and saw that it was covered in writing. Most of it was so old and faded as to be rendered illegible, but it was clearly some sort of graffiti, and she couldn't resist leaving some sort of mark in the lightless depths of Faerûn's most infamous dungeon.  
  
Pulling out a Sharpie from her bag, she found an empty space and wrote...  
  
ELMINSTER IS A SCABBY KOBOLD.  
  
No sooner had she put the cap back on when she heard rattling and the shuffling of booted footsteps coming from down the tunnel, out of her circle of light. In the darkness she heard a strange voice, old and cracked, muttering some obscure phrase. Straining to listen, she caught a few words.  
  
"...anelli, bucatini, cannelloni, cochiglie..."  
  
Siobhan clicked off her light. Then she reconsidered the drawbacks of not being able to see anything, and turned it back on.  
  
"...eliche, farfalle, fettuccine, fusilli..."  
  
"Noodles?" she muttered to herself.  
  
"...gemelli, lasagna, linguini, lumache..."  
  
The figure that came out of the shadows was tall but bent, with wild gray hair and tattered black garments accented by old, dried-out chicken skulls and finger bones. He pointed at the wall where Siobhan had left her intended calumny with a digit that bore more than a passing resemblance to one of his grisly ornaments. A round of mad chortling ensued.  
  
Siobhan cringed, waiting for something horrible thing to happen, like get turned into a dish of pasta primavera or the Waterdhavian equivalent.  
  
"Few know what the Old Sage keeps a closely guarded secret," the old man cackled. "Just him, me, you, and his lying toady Greenwood. Shhh!" He shuffled away, still chuckling to himself. "Noodles!" she heard him call out under his breath, long after the shape of his back faded out of sight.  
  
Could it be true? Could Elmonster really be a kobold? Would the Mad Master of the Labyrinth—for Siobhan could think of no other graybeard who would be wandering around Undermountain, rambling on nonsensically about processed flour paste—have spared her life if it wasn't so? It was a definitely food for thought (no pun intended).  
  
Siobhan continued walking. What could be more dangerous than Halaster Blackcloak, after all?  
  
***  
  
"This is absurd," Entreri muttered to himself after disarming the fifth trap he'd discovered, only to find himself back where he'd began after a random teleporter whisked him away. He ducked into an empty room and pulled out his phone to dial Jarlaxle's number, comforted to hear it ringing.  
  
"Guess where I am," he said tetchily when the mercenary answered.  
  
"In Lady Laeral's closets? No," Jarlaxle corrected himself. "Let me think. You're in the Vatican, right? By Lloth's hairy shanks, man, I told you to kill one insignificant priest of Bane, not go after the Pope himself."  
  
Jarlaxle had never actually told him to kill Goerik, but Entreri decided to let the obvious gaff slide.  
  
"Jarlaxle," he said, in a patient tone people normally reserved for very small children and halfwits, "I'm in Undermountain. Did Siobhan bring any information on Undermountain?"  
  
"Hmm." He could hear Jarlaxle rummaging through Siobhan's stack of books and boxes. Giving a low whistle, he remarked, "She's got some stuff here that would be worth a small fortune to the right disreputable sage...What's this? 'Volo's Guide to Waterdeep'?" He heard the book smack against stone. "That guy is such a putz. Ever read his travel memoirs?" Jarlaxle made a disgusted sound. "Let's see, Undermountain...She said some of this is out of date, but—ah!" The sound of paper crinkling and unfolding. "Maps!"  
  
"If I describe my surroundings, can you pinpoint my location and guide me out of here?"  
  
Jarlaxle snickered. "Are you asking me for directions? I thought real men didn't ask for directions," he said.  
  
"I am a pragmatist," Entreri huffed defensively.  
  
"Of course," came the mercenary's conciliatory reply.  
  
From Entreri's compulsively precise descriptions ("I'm in a 20-foot by 30- foot rectangular room with six 1-foot-diameter marble pillars arranged in a trapezoidal configuration symmetrically bisecting the chamber along its longitudinal axis"), Jarlaxle figured out where he was and began leading him toward the Well of Entry. Several twists and turns later, Entreri was describing a battle with a group of xvarts that had taken up residence in the tunnels.  
  
"Eeeeeeeeeeeee!" came the impassioned war cries of the diminutive gang, followed by the clashing of swords and the inevitable splat of body parts hitting the wall. "There's another one," Entreri was saying into the mouthpiece of his cell phone as he dismembered a squealing xvart. "Two more up ahead—oh wait, they're running away."  
  
As the last sounds of battle faded away, a sudden hush filled the corridors. Entreri continued on, consulting his companion less and less as he began to map out the dungeon in his mind. Jarlaxle seemed a bit distracted, too; the assassin wondered what he was up to.  
  
"Alright, this doorway up ahead is marked as trapped," the mercenary said some time later, after Entreri described an area with two successive doorways leading into a large circular room. "Simple crossbow trap. Shouldn't be a problem."  
  
Entreri searched around the doorframes, checking the corridor preceding it and the vestibule between the two entrances. "There's nothing here," he said after awhile.  
  
"The key says..." Jarlaxle began.  
  
"The key is wrong. If there is a trap here, it's not a simple mechanical one." Entreri kept searching anyway, but eventually had to give up. He stepped through the second doorway, or rather, tried to. He was bounced back into the vestibule by some invisible force, and when he tried to retreat the other way, found the first entrance blocked in the same way. Suddenly, the floor started moving, spinning his prison 90 degrees counter- clockwise. What had been a stone wall to his left disappeared, leaving Entreri with one exit—into another circular chamber with a doorway on the other side, currently inhabited by a six-armed woman with the tail of a snake and about fifty of her minions: squat, vicious little things that appeared to be all teeth and no brains.  
  
"I think I'm going to have to call you back," he told Jarlaxle.  
  
***  
  
Far above, in a well-lit tavern, a green-clad nobleman was wagering with a hooded, mysterious stranger.  
  
"500 gold on the marilith and her dretches," offered the nobleman, to which the hooded stranger shook his head.  
  
"Your sword for the defeat of the demon," he replied. "Nothing less."  
  
The nobleman raised an eyebrow. "This one?" he gestured to the well- crafted rapier peace-knotted to his side. "I'm rather fond of it, actually. It plays all of my favorite tunes, you see. You would have to offer something of similar value for me to even consider the risk of parting with it."  
  
"I think I can accommodate you," said the stranger, reaching into his cloak.  
  
Behind him, another man chuckled. "Not a wager I'd make, myself. Zaphinea's never lost a fight in all the years she's been 'testing' the fools that wander down into her lair."  
  
The stranger ignored him and withdrew an odd, nearly flat squarish device, hooked by a cord to what looked to the nobleman like earmuffs. "Try these on," the stranger said, handing him the muffs.  
  
He took them gingerly, placing them over his ears, then started in surprise as the stranger pushed some buttons on the attached device. He started bobbing his head, as if entranced. The stranger watched him for about thirty seconds, then hit another button. The nobleman took off the muffs.  
  
"Who are these extraordinary bards? I'm sure I've never heard them before."  
  
"Pink Floyd," replied the stranger, tucking the device back into his cloak. "That would be Dark Side of the Moon."  
  
"Is there more?"  
  
"Much more," the stranger assured him with a smile from underneath his hood.  
  
"My sword for your songs?" the nobleman reiterated, leaning over to peer into the crystal ball. Apparently liking what he saw, he nodded. "It's a deal." 


	3. Cross-traders--Part Three

PART THREE  
  
***  
  
Siobhan was about to turn around and head back to the Well of Entry when she saw about twenty ape-like creatures emerge from the shadows along the wide corridor she was traveling. Shaggy, with mangy-looking red hides, the creatures stared balefully at her out of glowing crimson eyes that looked like pinpoints of flame in the darkness. Utterly silent, they began to close around her in a circle, cutting off her escape.  
  
"Um, hi," she said nervously. "Any of you want an After Eight mint?"  
  
The apes stopped and started growling at each other, apparently conversing. After what seemed like an eternity to Siobhan, who was fumbling for her crowbar in a desperate last gamble, the whole group moved up, forcing her onward.  
  
"So, what are you guys? Carnivorous apes? Alaghi?" she asked, not because she expected any answer, but because it made her feel better to talk.  
  
One of the monsters turned around and halted. "We are bar-lgura!" it shouted proudly, causing several others to cheer and stomp their feet. A couple hissed and threw dead rats at the bar-lgura cheerleader, but most simply plodded along, indifferent.  
  
"Tanar'ri," Siobhan muttered to herself through a forced smile. "How nice." She clutched her crowbar even tighter, though she doubted she could even damage the fiends with it.  
  
The demon-apes continued to press her forward, until at last they came to a row of three stone doors at the end of the corridor. The bar-lgura shouldered open the middle one, leading Siobhan into a spacious room lit with a soft red glow. Tapestries that depicted horrific scenes of death and dismemberment lined every wall. A fountain of blood flowed down into a crimson pool behind a dais, on which sat a well-groomed bar-lgura in a black robes. In one hand he clutched a staff; in the other, a scroll.  
  
The demon on the dais cleared his throat—a horrible, mucus-filled roaring that sounded like a car without a muffler. The demon rose to his full height, a little over six feet.  
  
"So, you have brought me a captive," he boomed.  
  
Several bar-lgura cleared a path and shoved Siobhan forward. She chuckled nervously. "Look, I think my wardrobe got mixed up for this scene. If you could just excuse me while I go off and slip into a long white dress…"  
  
The demon stared at her with his fiery eyes for so long, the other bar- lgura got impatient and started poking each other discreetly, blaming it on the next one in line until it escalated into a mild scuffle. The leader ignored the pushing and shoving and said in a monotonous, pedantic tone, "Interesting. You have an appreciation for metadrama that few humans exhibit in times of mortal peril. For you, I suspect, reducing the reality of events to the status of parody or farce is a coping mechanism that you employ when faced with the threat of grisly, imminent death. Would you like to hear a poem I wrote?"  
  
"Um…that's very astute," Siobhan replied, having to raise her voice over the commotion of the brawling bar-lgura. "You are a poet, then?"  
  
She could have sworn the demon blushed, but it was hard to tell under all the fur. "An amateur," he humbly admitted, suddenly seeming more lively, even personable. "The problem is, my own kind are notoriously bad judges of word craft, and have no appreciation for its art. Perhaps you would do me the honor of critiquing a poem I wrote, before I hand you over to the boss to be tortured to death."  
  
Siobhan had a sneaking suspicion that having to sit through a tanar'ri poetry reading might kill her first, anyway. "You know, I would love to hear your poem," she said brightly, "but first, why don't you tell me who this boss is, and why you want to hand me over to him?"  
  
"Her," the demon corrected, scowling as he stepped off the dais and paced over to the fountain. "She claims dominion over every creature that wanders this stretch of tunnels."  
  
"Hmm," mused Siobhan. "Do I detect a trace of animosity in your tone?"  
  
"That's an understatement. You have to understand, my kind aren't valued highly in tanar'ri society. Most of us are considered dumb, inferior. For me, it's different. I'm looked upon with suspicion because my interests are 'un-tanar'ri-like'. My clan had carved out a relatively peaceful existence here, until she came along and enslaved us, forcing us to do her dirty work. She doesn't believe we're capable of doing anything else." Siobhan was shocked to hear the demon sound almost choked-up. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't burden you with this. It's just that people rarely come down here to talk to us."  
  
Suddenly, two bar-lgura barreled past Siobhan, one being pushed by the other. The victim in the scuffle was dunked into the pool of blood, and it surfaced a moment later, flailing wildly. It stumbled out and shook itself. Siobhan took a prudent step backward.  
  
"Bar-lgura angry!" it howled.  
  
"So…basically, what you're saying is, you feel marginalized in tanar'ri society by the cultural hegemony of particular traits that you don't possess in equal measure, such as the love of destruction and the gratuitous slaughter of innocents. And this glorification of violence has led to the devaluation of any characteristics approximating respect for life, forcing you into a subservient role. The atrophic mental state of your kind is both required and reviled, contemptible in a society that values battle-cunning, yet necessary for maintained control. Thus, you in particular are doubly despised, in one sense because of your 'un-tanar'ri- like' values, and in another because your intelligence is perceived as a threat to the dominant caste." Siobhan took a deep breath. "Is that about right?"  
  
The demon clasped his hands together excitedly. "That's exactly right!" it exclaimed. "You understand the problem perfectly."  
  
"Oh, well…I try," Siobhan modestly replied.  
  
"I don't even _like_ fountains of blood and gruesome décor," the fiend confessed. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I just have those things around to keep up appearances, you know."  
  
"Well, it's very convincing."  
  
"Is it? Did I come across as sinister and demonic at first? On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate my appearance in terms of nefariousness?"  
  
"Well, ah…" she stammered, "I'd probably give you a solid 9.5 on the evil scale."  
  
"Brilliant!" the fiend crowed. "Thank you, thank you." His voice was thick with emotion. "I enjoyed talking with you, really. It is such a shame that I have to have you killed now. Troops!"  
  
"Wait, wait!" Siobhan cried out as the bar-lgura moved to surround her again. "You don't need to kill me. You need to get your act together and fight back against your oppressor!"  
  
The leader held out a hand for the others to halt. "What do you mean?" he asked skeptically.  
  
"I mean, you've got to do something about the situation you're in. Start a petition, or a leaflet campaign, or something. I can help you make signs," she offered.  
  
The leader looked around at its unruly troops. "I don't know," he said. "This clan has a hard time coming together for any task that takes more than about five minutes, unless food is involved. If we march—"  
  
"We march!" shouted one bar-lgura, thumping its chest.  
  
"We march and slay the tyrant!" Cheering and stomping broke out all over the room.  
  
Siobhan waited for a momentary lull in the tumult and said, "Well, now that that's settled, I guess you don't need me anymore. I think I'll just go and take off. Places to go, riots to start, that sort of thing."  
  
"Not so fast," the leader said, grabbing her arm. His red eyes were glowing from under a thatch of hair above his brow. She stared the demon back with a steady expression and raised an eyebrow. "You are going to lead them," he informed her.  
  
"Me? No, no, I really don't think—"  
  
"Yes, you." The demon winked at her—a gruesome sight. "And then afterward, we'll come back here and I'll read you some of my poetry." He gave her arm a distinctly amorous little squeeze.  
  
Siobhan gulped. "That sounds like an experience worth writing home about," she said flatly. "I can hardly wait."  
  
***  
  
Entreri strode out of the vestibule, his dagger and Charon's Claw drawn. The snake woman's slavering minions slobbered and drooled, inching forward in anticipation of a feeding frenzy.  
  
The marilith lashed her tail, which was capped with a cruelly barbed spike. She held six flaming short swords in her hands, and started them spinning in a perfectly precise pattern, creating the illusion of a globe of fire whirling around her head.  
  
She gave her visitor a chance to be suitably impressed, then stopped the sword dance and crossed all six of her arms in a cocky gesture, blades pointing outward. "Come to play with Zaphinea, have you?" she taunted him with a roguish smirk. "Careful, you might get burned."  
  
"You'll be playing back in the Abyss in a moment," Entreri promised her, stalking in. The stupid dretches or manes or whatever they were surrounded him, biting and clawing at his leather armor. The assassin swept several of the pathetic creatures out of his way as he approached his real target, but they continued to pour in around him, more of a nuisance than any serious threat.  
  
"Maybe I'll see you there?" the marilith suggested slyly, still confident enough to be coy. Then her arms uncrossed with the hiss of steel against steel and flames danced in her eyes, glowing like hot coals in black fathomless pits.  
  
"You'd better hope not, for your sake," Entreri responded.  
  
Her blades flashed. Charon's Claw lashed out, Entreri weaving the sword with deft twists to dance through her formidable arsenal. Her tail snaked around behind him, cutting off his movement and snapping at his back. She was using her own tail to flank him, he realized. Nice tactic. He would have applauded her if he'd had any hands free.  
  
He brought his knees up in a standing jump and leapt backward a step, parrying six swords at the same time, in an attempt to pin the thing to the ground. As quick as he was, she was a hair quicker. The tail shot away with the speed of a cracking whip, out of reach in a fraction of an instant.  
  
The constant clash of their blades beat out a rapid staccato of metal on metal. The heat of the flames—  
  
There was no heat. Strange. The thought hung briefly in his mind, but the assassin pushed it out as he made a lightning-quick series of calculations. Changing tactics, he fell back, cutting a line of ash with his sword in front of the marilith's face to block her view from him.  
  
Instead of stepping through it, she darted to the side. Her back was toward the one exit out of the room. Entreri stepped back in just short of her reach and cut another line perpendicular to the first, on her flank. She moved backward and sent several of her dretches to gather in behind her.  
  
It was like a game of chess, Entreri thought. Too bad he'd never actually learned how to play chess, leaving that particular pastime to hunchbacked old wizards who were incapable of swinging a real sword. But her movements confirmed his suspicions—she was trying to avoid line of sight being cut off from the doorway to herself.  
  
No heat. That convinced him. "An illusion," he muttered. Almost immediately, the marilith disappeared and complete, impenetrable darkness fell over him.  
  
***  
  
"You were supposed to provide the suggestion of heat, you stupid bitch," the real Zaphinea snarled at the succubus standing beside her as the projected image disappeared, dispelled by Entreri's disbelief. "You know that's what first tipped the human off."  
  
The succubus sneered at her. "Incogitant whore," she hissed. "Don't you recognize a ring of fire resistance when you see one? They're the ones with the big star rubies on them. How was I supposed to know the human was too stupid to even realize what he possessed?"  
  
"Guard the corridor," the marilith ordered, dismissing her as she stalked into the room where the human was blindly hacking up dretch fodder. Her real blades still writhed with her trademark flames. So what if the human had elemental resistance? She liked fire.  
  
"Go kiss a gelugon," said the succubus when her superior was out of earshot. "Why do you get to have all the fun?" She was about to follow Zaphinea when she caught the sound of raised voices in the corridor. All in unison. Shouting something she couldn't quite make out.  
  
"Bar-lgura?" she said to the empty air, suddenly confused.  
  
***  
  
Siobhan saw the succubus at the same time the succubus saw her. A barrage of mental insinuations berated her mind.  
  
"Sorry, not interested," Siobhan said, shaking them off. "And no, I do not want to be your 'friend'."  
  
The fiend shrieked some Abyssal command and the corridor became flooded with dretches. The bar-lgura surged forward with a merry pronouncement of doom and destruction, hopping into the fray with wild abandon.  
  
The succubus flew up above the mob and leered down at Siobhan, flapping her bat-like wings. She continued to hover there, sneering. Siobhan reached around into her knapsack. "Well? Are you going to just hang around up there looking scary and demonic, or are you going to make some catty remark about my hair or something?"  
  
"Foolish human," the demon hissed. "You deal with the tanar'ri, you lose." She glanced meaningfully at the bar-lgura leader, who was in the thick of the fray, spouting out an ill-conceived haiku as he slammed an unfortunate dretch to the ground.  
  
"Oh, you know you're just jealous because he chooses to share his poetry with me," Siobhan said, hoping to distract the demon with absurdities. She flung the CD she'd picked up in Jarlaxle's tower, nearly slicing her own hand in the process. What had Entreri done to the thing?  
  
It sailed up and embedded itself in the fiend's cheek. Siobhan wasn't entirely pleased; she'd been aiming for the jugular. The succubus shrieked and clawed at her face, then dove down at Siobhan.  
  
"Damn, I was really banking on getting a critical there," she muttered. "Hey comrades! I could use a hand here!" Several bar-lgura broke off from the main fight as the demon came down upon Siobhan in a shrieking fury, creating a pile-up of at least six flailing combatants.  
  
***  
  
"Looks like I might be getting your sword after all," the cloaked stranger said wryly as he peered through the crystal ball.  
  
The dandy shook his head, intent upon the scene unfolding. "I should have known she was a demon," he said with his characteristically vacant air. "The red hair, those eyes, that fiery temper…"  
  
Underneath his cowl, the stranger smirked and held his tongue.  
  
***  
  
Entreri wasn't exactly sure why the dretches had suddenly vacated the darkness, but he wasn't about to question his fortune now. The real question was why the marilith—cunning creature that he knew her to be—had made such an obvious slip with her illusion of heatless flames.  
  
He felt a sudden rush of air and whirled around, instinct guiding his blade to parry the unseen attack. In his mind he reconstructed his earlier fight with the illusion, anticipated her next series of movements, and set his blades whirling to create a defensive shell. One of the marilith's shortswords nearly took off his dagger hand, but he angled the blade up in time to avoid a debilitating injury. He felt the ring he'd looted off the dead cleric grow slightly warm.  
  
Now he thought he understood. He suddenly kicked backwards and trapped the marilith's tail between his feet. Charon's Claw swept down and sliced of off. Entreri leapt back and while the demon was distracted by her severed tail, he discreetly flicked the ring off his finger with his thumb and dropped it into his sleeve.  
  
Now he could feel the heat from the swords. They might scorch him a little, but at least he knew where they were.  
  
He circled back into the fight with renewed fury, his momentum continuing to build. So her blades outnumbered his three to one? He would just have to strike faster.  
  
At last Charon's Claw broke through the marilith's defenses. He felt the sword impale her, and the magical darkness dissipated to reveal her slowly dissolving form. She eyed him hatefully.  
  
"In a hundred years, you will be dead," she threatened.  
  
"Yes," Entreri replied with a mocking smile as the demon melted away, "more than likely."  
  
Then he noted the noise out in the corridor.  
  
As he warily moved into the shadows, Siobhan stumbled into the room. 


	4. Cross-traders--Part Four

PART FOUR  
  
***  
  
"Are you insane!" he greeted her. "What are you doing here?"  
  
She looked equally surprised to see him. "Running from an overzealous suitor, that's what I'm doing," she said, catching her breath.  
  
Entreri stared at her as if she'd just sprouted horns and a tail.  
  
"A demon," she explained. "I think they're just about done pummeling the succubus and mopping up the dretches."  
  
Entreri just stood there, staring as if he were debating what to do with her. Then he shook his head, sheathed his weapons and started for the doorway. "I'll go have a word with him," he said ambivalently, as if he'd just informed her that he was going to get his hand lopped off, but it was really no big deal.  
  
"Well, don't kill him, okay? He really isn't that bad, for a tanar'ri. Just try to explain to him that it really isn't possible for me to stay here, you know, and I have a career ahead of me that doesn't involve relocating to the Abyss, and…" She stopped when she realized she was talking to empty air.  
  
"Oh, he'll never get all that," she said to herself, running ahead.  
  
After the matter was settled with the bar-lgura (who wisely departed without further injury to themselves), Siobhan began tracing her steps back toward the Well of Entry.  
  
"I thought you were going to stay at that hat shop," Entreri grumbled, obviously not pleased.  
  
"Well, I was, but then these two noblewomen came in with a whole entourage of servants carrying shoe boxes, and they kept looking at me funny. So I told them that if their brain cell count ever exceeded their footwear collection, their faces might stop freezing in such unsightly positions. And then I left."  
  
"Do you have to pick a fight with everyone you meet?"  
  
"Is it just me, or is the source of that comment just slightly ironic?" she asked innocently.  
  
Entreri gave her a look that precluded any mistaking of his intentions. "If this ever happens again," he told her, "I'm leaving you to the demon."  
  
***  
  
Later that day, back at the tower, Siobhan shut down her laptop and packed it in her bag. "Well, the polls are in," she said cheerfully as Jarlaxle came whistling into the room. "You're more popular than ever."  
  
Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow. "Am I, now?"  
  
She nodded, grinning. "Yep. The general consensus is that you're WAY sexier than Drizzt."  
  
He stopped before his full-length mirror and stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Well, yes…yes, I can see that…" He examined himself from several different angles and asked, "And what's the take on you, fair lady?"  
  
"Oh, the usual stuff. 'How come the main female characters in fantasy are always mouthy redheads? That is SUCH a cliché.' And, 'She's attractive AND articulate? I don't buy her character at all.' 'I hope Entreri kills her—that's all I have to say.'" She shrugged. "I really think I'd better stay in my own world from now on. You should come and visit with Entreri sometime—you could gob black face paint all over yourself, wear a chintzy robe made out of your grandmother's curtains and carry around a plastic sword. People would just think you were part of some freaky Menzoberranzan enactment group."  
  
"Go through the teleporter with Entreri?" Jarlaxle mused. "I don't know. Do you have to hold hands or something? I don't want to get the gay rumors started again."  
  
Siobhan rolled her eyes and dropped a stack of books into her bag. Then she caught sight of the weapon belted at Jarlaxle's side.  
  
"Hey, I recognize that sword!" she said, pointing at it. "Some guy at the Yawning Portal was wearing it. Acted like a complete fop; dressed like a cereal box character. Had the cheesiest pick-up lines I've ever heard."  
  
"Oh, this thing?" Jarlaxle drew the blade out, looking at it lovingly. "This is my newest toy. It's going to irritate the hell out of Entreri." He chuckled wickedly. "You see, it can store songs. I've already programmed one into it." He swung the sword through the air, activating its magic. Siobhan heard Jarlaxle's voice singing in falsetto:  
  
"Dancing Queen…feel the beat from the tambourine…"  
  
"That's it, I'm leaving," Siobhan said. She picked up her bag and started to run down the stairs as Jarlaxle began singing along with the sword.  
  
"Artemis!" she called, finding him down below, preparing to go out. "Just out of curiosity, how much do you charge for having someone…ah…silenced, so to speak?"  
  
Entreri cocked his head, listening to the lilting duet echoing down the stairs. "That depends on several factors," he said, his tone suddenly very business-like. "First of all, the mark, is he a—"  
  
"Dark elf," Siobhan supplied.  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Possible magical ability, enormous resources at his disposal, lots of toys," she informed him. "Could be difficult."  
  
"Any allies worth noting?" Entreri asked.  
  
"At this point, it doesn't look like it," she said, trying to keep a straight face.  
  
"Your funds are a little low," Entreri said, "but perhaps an arrangement could be made…" He stood up and tipped his bolero.  
  
It was difficult to tell from the shadow cast by his hat brim, but Siobhan could have sworn he cracked a smile.  
  
***  
  
THE END 


End file.
